


Sex and Someone Else's Perfume

by wook77



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wook77/pseuds/wook77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't remember when you fell in love with him. It's not like it was some sort of crazy explosion with fireworks, lightning bolts, and singing choirs of angels. You just love him even when he shows up smelling like sex and someone else's perfume.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex and Someone Else's Perfume

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elanorofcastile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanorofcastile/gifts).



> Written for my lovely elanorofcastile's birthday (and delivered late). Also written for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink/379.html?thread=1337211#t1337211) at the st_xi_kink meme cause I double dip like that. Beta'd by the most amazing why_me_why_not. 
> 
> Originally written in June 2009 and posted [here](http://wook77.livejournal.com/243306.html).

You can't remember when you fell in love with him. It's not like it was some sort of crazy explosion with fireworks, lightning bolts, and singing choirs of angels. You've known him forever, you're _best friends_ , for fuck's sake. It's just that one day, you notice there's a little bit more there and you ignore it. 

It takes a week for the full enormity of your feelings to hit you. You don't just love your friend, you're in _love_ with him. You want more, god knows you do because you're a greedy asshole that likes to reach for things that you aren't allowed to have. 

You've fucked yourself royally, this time, because he's happy with the others. He's happy with the way things are and he doesn't want more from you. He doesn't want the more that you want to give. 

So you hold it in, you let it go, you ignore it, you drown it, you live with it, you accept it, you become one with it. You move on. 

Long, aimless years go by. You're busy studying or drinking or working or living. You've accepted that you love him but you no longer feel the need to act on it. Loving him is enough. Being around him is enough. 

When you'd first realized, you had been so jealous of everyone around him. You'd wanted it all for yourself. But now? Now you're happy that he's happy. That's true love, that's what you've lost in your past relationships. That's why your marriage failed.

You might be a selfish bastard, but you're also a selfless bastard. If he needs the others for validation or any other reason under the sun, you can accept that because you love him as he is. 

"It's why I love you, man," he says one night while on shore leave, words slurring drunkenly. You startle (of course you do, you've wanted those words for how long?). "I do. I love you." 

"I love you, too, Jim," you say back, humoring him. You even add a pat to the head to enforce the sarcasm and hiding the truth. He shoves away from you, angry and sharp gestures that you've only ever seen directed at others. Never at yourself. 

"You don't get what I'm saying," he says and then storms off. It's the pattern of things. Jim storms off, you chase him, console him, humor him, save him from himself. 

It's just that this time, you have to save yourself. You don't want to hear about how he loves you more than his one night stands but then he'll still go out and have them. Instead, you stay where you are. 

It feels like hours go by and then, suddenly, he's there, gripping your face and kissing you. You lean into the touch (what greedy bastard wouldn't take the opportunity to live out a fantasy like this?) and moan into his mouth as he possesses it.

If it were anyone else, the kiss wouldn't be memorable. There's too much teeth, too much tongue, it's too wet. But it's _his_ hands on your face, _his_ lips slipping across yours, the feel of _his_ tongue against yours, the clack of _his_ teeth against yours, and the bruised and bloody lip _he's_ given you that you'll have in the morning that make it the best kiss of your life. 

He pulls back as abruptly as he'd appeared, hands leaving your face. It's not for long, though, because his hand comes slashing through the air and slaps you across the face. "You fucker. You absolute fucker." 

"What the hell?" you demand as you hold your cheek. 

"Years, I've been waiting. _Years_ , Bones. I don't wait for anyone but I waited for you and you never had the balls to do anything about it. Well, fuck you," he says and then he storms away again, crossing the street and moving away from you at such a rapid pace that you don't think you can catch him. You try anyway, running after him like a puppy, chasing him to get him to pay attention to you though you haven't a clue what to say to him. 

When you catch up to him, you grab his shoulder, swing him around and then, both hands up, you shove him hard against a tree. When he slams against it, head cracking against bark, you wait until he leans forward and do it again. And again. You're yelling at him, words flying out of your mouth so rapidly that you don't even know what you're saying until suddenly he's wrapped around you so close that his breath moves inside your chest. 

"I know," he whispers against your neck, lips wet and needy. "We're not going to lose this. You're my best friend but that doesn't mean that we can't have what we both want." 

"I can't," you moan, and you know that he knows that you want it so bad that you can taste it (his taste is still on your tongue). 

"We can," Jim responds, hands pulling you even closer. For just an instant, you believe it. 

"I can't," you say again and you mean it. "Can't fuck this up. Can't do this. I can't do this." 

"Fine," he says and he steps back. It's melodramatic but it's true: you can feel the loneliness sweeping in and it feels cold. 

As he walks away, you want to shout out. "Wait." The command sits on your lips but you don't say it. 

It's three days until you see him again but when you do, it's as if the conversation never happened. He's sleeping in your bed and reeks of cheap perfume and sex. It's not a smell you're going to be able to get out of your nose, your sheets or your bed easily. You'll have to burn the sheets to completely purge it from your system. Maybe it'll burn the feeling of betrayal out of you at the same time. 

You need to sit down except there's only the bed. You'd both broken the chair over a year ago (god, was it really that long ago that you'd come stumbling in after a particularly horrendous mission and ended up breaking his nose and your wrist while drunk?) and you hadn't wanted to contact Starfleet Command to request a new one nor had you wanted to spend the money to fix it. Knees shaking, you _have_ to sit down so you crouch on the very edge of the bed. Even though you're careful to make as little movement as possible, Jim still wakes, which you find out when his hand touches your hip. It's hard not to touch him back so you stay still even as he takes your stillness for acceptance (It's not. It's fear but how can you tell him that?) and wraps himself around you, his stomach sideways to your back, his head on your leg and his knees brushing against your other leg. 

There's nowhere for your hands to go other than into his hair. The words are out before you finish thinking them. "I can't fight you as well as myself." 

"I'm sorry," he says but you can't tell what he's apologizing for. 

"I can't do this," you say and he curls around you tighter, his hand curling into your thigh and holding on tightly. 

"You love me," he says it plainly. It's not a question. It's a statement of fact and you nod in response before realizing that he can't see your head moving. 

"Yeah," you say. 

"I love you," he says back, as if that makes everything better. As if every problem is solved instantly by this one admission. You want to rage at him, tell him all the dirty and sordid details from your divorce and how love doesn't cure a fucking thing, how it just makes it worse when things go tits up and if he thinks, for one minute, that things aren't going to go tits up, than he's completely naïve. 

"You love me so much you go out and fuck someone else?" Your hand tightens in his hair and you yank it before rubbing your fingers along his scalp and soothing the pain. "Goddammit, Jim, you reek of cheap perfume and sex." 

"I'm sorry," he says again and you still can't tell what he's apologizing for. 

"We'll forget this happened, go back to what we were." 

"Can't." 

"Then I'll transfer." 

"No," Jim says and then, before you can react, he's wrapped around you, chest to back, lips on your neck while his hands fumble at your waist and tug up your shirt. His hands burn your stomach as they knead the flesh there. 

"Yes," you respond. There's no way that you can just stay like this. It's eating you alive. 

"No," he reiterates and nips along at your neck and ear and hairline. " _Please_." 

It's the way that his voice cracks on 'please' that breaks you. You ignore the way that he reeks of someone else's perfume. You ignore the possibility that he's infected with god knows what sort of STD. You ignore everything but the way that his 'please' echoes in your head. "We do this and no more. You understand me? No more anyone else." 

You turn your head and capture his lips with yours. It's enough to send him over the edge, he pulls your shirt over your head, his hands ravaging your chest as he scores it with his blunt but sharp nails. You arch backwards, your head resting on his shoulder as he thrusts his hands into your pants roughly, not even bothering with the fastenings. It's as your ear brushes his lips that you can hear the way that he's chanting, "yours yours yoursyoursyoursyoursyoursyoursyoursyours." 

"Mine," you say. You don't repeat it because you want him to realize just how serious you are. 

"Yours," he says and then recaptures your lips while his hands perform magic with your pants, baring your cock to the room at large before his hands engulf it. 

He's taken over completely. You're just along for the ride. He pushes you against the bed, holding you there as he strips your pants and underwear off while you breathe in the scent of his other, perfume and sex and Jim all combine in your nostrils and you hate the scent but you're always going to remember it because… because _oh Christ_ his fingers are in your ass and it feels glorious, it feels amazing. It's the most perfect thing you've felt in just about forever (you don't want to think about the perfect feelings of the day Joanna was born because that's just not appropriate in this setting but that's the last time you've felt so perfect and amazing). 

You buck up into his hands, the way that he's holding your hip. You're on your knees and that's when you realize that you're _tasting_ the pillow, as well as smelling it because you're chanting, "yoursyoursyoursyoursyoursyoursyoursyours."

He grabs your hips and thrusts in with no warning, pushing you forward on the bed so that you almost fall off the edge. Your hands scramble for something to hold on to so you can rock back into his thrusts. There's nothing there, though, and if he keeps fucking you this hard (and he'd better, god, had he better) than you're going to go right off the edge in more ways than one. The thought makes you laugh – quick, cut-off laughter that ceases abruptly when he grabs your chin and pulls you backwards so that you're sitting on his cock, chest to back. His thighs are underneath your spread ones and you push up and slam back down onto his cock, meeting his rhythm. 

Jim comes first, pushing himself up while pulling you down, and he freezes, his entire body locking as his mouth keens (you haven't heard a more erotic sound in your life and it's definitely one that will stick with you). After he pulls out roughly, he flips you again, forcing you to lay on your back while he stays between your legs and then sucks you deep into his mouth. You can feel the back of his throat as he bobs on your cock. His hands hold you down so you can't fuck his mouth. He's taking and taking and there's so much more that you want to give but he's only allowing you so much. It's not nearly enough. Your hand touches his cheek and he looks up, eyes haunted and needy and you stop him, pulling him off your cock. "Yours," you say softly. "Always." 

"Yours," he responds. "Always." 

"Jim." 

"Bones." He shakes his head at that and then kisses the hollow of one hip bone and then the other. His nose burrows into your pubic hair and then he mouths, against your balls, "Leonard." 

He takes your balls into his mouth, rolling them about and you barely resist bucking up into him. When he takes your cock into his mouth once more, the pace is a bit gentler, slower, more languid as he sucks you off. His tongue rubs against the throbbing vein underneath while he barely scraps the tip with his teeth. That's enough for you and you come with no warning, spurting deep into his mouth. 

As you shake in the aftermath, he climbs up your body, mouthing kisses along the way, pausing to nip at your nipples or your collarbone or your neck (oh god, he's marked you, he's left a mark that everyone's going to see. So help you, Spock makes one comment about it and the ship will be missing its First Officer). He's clambering all over you, wrapping himself along your length. 

He still smells like sex and someone else's perfume. You don't know how long he'll keep his vow but you can't help but wonder if, perhaps, this time everything might work out. This time a relationship will last. This time, you'll get to be happy with someone, live a lifetime for someone, _with_ someone. You ignore his reckless ways and the danger that your jobs has put you in. You ignore all of the bad (for once. You're a pessimist, not Pollyanna) and live in the moment. Jim's the moment.


End file.
